Zen and the Art of Radioactive Man Maintenance
by Fantastic Pants
Summary: This trip isn't all that great for my blood pressure, but at least I stand the chance of becoming a full fledged Zen master by the end of it. [MattTed]


_Zen and the Art of Radioactive-Man Maintenance_

* * *

Okay, so here's what we've got - telepathic ex-cop, radioactive guy, and – well, whatever the hell _Bennet_ is.

Sounds like the premise for a sitcom. A really _bad_ one.

It's not that funny when you're _in_ it. And it gets even less amusing when the bus breaks down only three hours into the drive.

Judging by the dismayed look on Bennet's face, that's not a reality he's willing to accept. Maybe once we take down that tracking system he'll decide to lead a crusade against Murphy's Laws. Probably drag us along for _that_, too.

Ted just does his best Oscar the Grouch impression.

Not that that's much of a change from his usual self.

We reach the motel before I manage to attach a muppet counterpart to Bennet - thank God. The sun is already preparing to set, which works I suppose, since in a way we're already in a Twilight Zone of our own. The motel itself looks like something straight out of a Stephen King novel - the kind of place serial killers would happily call home.

Just about perfect for us, in that case.

Bennet goes to talk to the receptionist.

I belatedly notice that Ted is giving me a look – I stare back, not sure what he's trying to say.

His gaze slides over to Bennet, taking on a _meaningful_ edge, and he tilts his head, in case that wasn't clear enough.

Okay. I _think_ it means he wants me to take a brief tour into Bennet's mind.

Thing is, that particular mind isn't the safest place to tread if you want to keep your ego intact. I've come to discover that in the last few hours – it's not like most people's heads are filled with care bears and unicorns or anything like that, but Bennet's… Bennet's is special.

Actually, it's about as _safe_ as walking into a minefield blindfolded. Or at least playing minesweeper on the highest difficulty. Last time I made an unfortunate slip into his brain, I came across a fleeting reference to Beavis and Butthead – kind of shocking, considering he was happily stuck in the 50's, if his fashion sense was any indication.

Somehow, I got the impression he wasn't making an in-depth analysis of the show.

I offer Ted a resolute headshake in response.

He doesn't seem to like that answer, his gaze turning - I wouldn't normally use the hole-burning analogy, but… his just might.

I give an inward sigh.

I suppose I can give it a shot. I don't really have much of an ego _left_, and I should at least _try_ to figure out what the hell Bennet's brilliant plan is. This 'need to know basis' thing is starting to get on my nerves too.

I attune myself as much as I can, getting a few stray thoughts, most laden with acidic annoyance, before one hits hard.

_Parkman, you're in my head. _

What the-

"How did you _know_-"

Wait.

He _didn't_.

Maybe he's not that smart. Maybe he's just got a way of making everyone around him _stupid_.

Well, it's working, obviously.

He looks over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow in that indifferent, glaringly condescending way that he's just perfect at.

For the one thousandth and third time today, I resist the urge to throttle him, or something to a similar effect.

Gotta look at the bright side - this trip isn't all that great for my blood pressure, but at least I stand the chance of becoming a full-fledged Zen master by the end of it.

* * *

_Two_ keys. Three of us. 

I wait for Ted to do the math – and there's the eye roll, right on cue.

Nice to know there are still _some_ things you can count on in this world.

Ted as an axis of stability – now there's the sort of thing that can really make you reevaluate your life.

I know it's a lost battle before we reach the rooms, because it's _Bennet_, and that's apparently reason enough for almost everything, but it doesn't stop me from questioning it.

"Wait, how come _you_ get-"

"No use arguing about it," he interrupts, "You should focus on getting some rest instead – we leave early tomorrow."

I try to come up with a counter-argument that doesn't involve a punch to his face.

"Besides," he adds impassively, "I snore".

He closes the door.

Ted scowls, hands buried in his pockets. "I should've nuked his ass back when I had the chance," he mutters under his breath.

"…Yeah. You should've."

Now that we have the wishful thinking out of the way, there's little left to do except… focus on getting some rest, I guess.

We get to our room and I wrestle with the door until it decides to cooperate, obviously reluctant to let us in. When we _do_ get it open, I realize it was only trying to protect us. The room smells of – on second thought, I don't wanna know. Sometimes ignorance can be a hell of a lot better than the truth.

The beds look like they're more comfortable housing cockroaches than actual people. And there's something on the wall - is that supposed to be some kind of art or –

_Ugh. _

No, guess not.

My only consolation at the moment is that Bennet's room should be just as bad, if not worse.

Then again, he doesn't have to share with Mr. Chernobyl and his ten thousand curies of radiation.

Said walking disaster is currently busy making his own assessment of the room – not exactly favorable, judging by the wrinkling of his nose.

"She used to like motels," he says out of the blue.

His wife. It takes me a second to remember the name.

"Karen?"

"Yeah," he gives a nasal snort, "she thought it was some great adventure, staying at a motel." His mouth takes on a crooked tilt. "I never liked adventures much. What's the point?"

I shrug, having trouble digesting the fact that Ted's actually… _sharing_?

"She wanted to go on a trip across the world - it was her big dream." He presses his lips together, pausing for a moment before continuing, "Guess _that_ didn't work out, huh?"

I should say _something_.

"Ted, it wasn't your fault. Just bad luck," I take a step towards him, putting my hand on his shoulder - he looks at it like it's some kind of dead animal. Or an alien.

"Sure. _Bad luck_ gave her cancer."

"You know what I mean, you couldn't have-"

The words die out as I notice the dangerous glow building in his eyes – not exactly as dangerous as it _can _get but-

"Let go of me, Parkman."

I take the hint and let my arm drop.

The next half hour is filled with strained silence, mutual discomfort , and strange smells. I try to read the local paper, but concentration is almost impossible to come by, and it resembles gibberish more than anything.

Ted paces, then sits at the edge of the bed, then paces some more.

"I'm going to bed," he declares finally, emphasizing his point by pulling off his sweatshirt and dropping it onto the grimy floor. So much for hygiene.

"Yeah. Me too."

Though I doubt any amount of sleep could cause this day to make sense.

* * *

An explosion jolts me awake. 

But everything is in place. It's quiet. No radioactive fallout, looks like.

Just a dream.

I blink a few times, rub a hand over my face, force myself into a semi-awake state, then turn towards Ted's bed.

He's not asleep, just lying there with his eyes open. He's pale, his breathing shallow.

Something's up.

"Ted?" I drag myself up and approach his bed, "You okay?"

He sits up, drawing his knees to his chest. I settle at the edge of the bed, ignoring the vaguely hostile glare he's offering in return.

"I'm _fine_, Parkman."

That's not very believable, and his thoughts begin to amplify, becoming hard to ignore.

_New York__. There are **people** in New York. A lot of people. What if I **do** something. What if - _

"Something," I repeat.

"Yeah, _something_–" he frowns when the realization hits, "stop it."

"I can't stop it, it just happens-" I sigh. "I can't. Not all the time."

He stares for a second or two before offering a blank, "I know."

_If **you **can't control it, then how the hell am **I **supposed to? _

Good question.

"Look, Ted, it's going to be alright." I fight the reluctance to say the next words, "Bennet knows what he's doing."

"Is that supposed to _reassure_ me?"

"Better than nothing."

He gives a tired, bitter smirk, "Right."

**_Bennet _**_can't stop me from exploding. _

Yeah, well, who the hell knows what Bennet _can _do.

"You aren't going to explode. He can teach you to control it."

"How do you _know_?"

_You don't have a **clue** what you're talking about, you don't know how it is, how it **really** is –__ what I can do, **did**, am going to do –_

His thoughts are speeding up and that's… not good.

"Come on, man," I speak slowly, trying to get him _steady_, "it's okay."

_Okay? What exactly is **okay** about it? **Nothing** is fucking okay - _

"Just relax, Ted," I move closer to him, "_breathe_."

_Breathe –__ what kind of **idiotic** advice is that? I'm not giving goddamn **birth** here, and I **am** breathing - _

My face is an inch away from his, frantic energy gliding off him in erratic, uneven waves, and some – I don't know what – drive, impulse, whatever – takes over and I lean in and press my lips against his.

His thoughts are abruptly cut off.

Mine, too.

"Parkman- _Parkman_," he pushes me away. "What –" he holds his hands out, voice on the verge of panic, "What _the hell_ are you doing?"

"I – I don't know." I swallow. "I have no idea, I'm sorry."

He shakes his head with disgruntled disbelief. "_Yeah._"

I guess I should consider myself lucky for not being on the receiving end of a meltdown, at least.

Jesus, what was I _thinking_? _Was_ I thinking? I'm married, for God's sake – baby on the way, and I'm –

The thread of thoughts is intercepted by his mouth hitting mine at an odd angle, stubble scratching my cheek.

It's weird and… kind of dry, but – not that _bad_, really – _what_ -

I put a hand on his chest and he draws back with a frown.

"What are _you_ doing?"

"Oh, _okay_, so first you're going all _gay_ on me," his frown deepens, approaching scowl territory. "And now you're too _chicken_ to follow through?"

"Chicken?" This is unbelievable. Straight out of high school. "Oh, that's nice. Real nice."

"I wasn't going for _nice_."

Yeah, I figured _that_ much.

Okay. Shit.

"So you actually," finding the right words is a challenge, "want to," I pause, "uh-"

He looks away, having an intense visual conversation with the wall as he works on a reply.

"You ever-"

"No," I answer before he gets to complete the sentence. Somehow, it's easier without, uh, _terminology_. "You?"

"_No,_" the word is sharp and definitive, like he's offended by the very thought.

Oh, well, that's just great – _now_ he decides to get homophobic.

"Okay, look, let's just forget this ever happened and -"

He grabs the front of my shirt, pulling me closer.

"And _what_, Parkman?"

**_Chicken. _**

Son of a -

"Fine, let's just do it."

We'll see just who's _chicken_.

"_Fine._"

"Fi-"

God, this is ridiculous.

He pulls his t-shirt off. For a human A-bomb, he sure is skinny. Really skinny.

"Do you eat?" I wonder out loud. "Ever?"

He stares at me for a few seconds.

"Yeah, I _eat_. Sometimes." His face does that irritated sea lion thing, "You're not my _mother_, Parkman."

Okay. Maybe this isn't the best timing to be having that talk.

We skip foreplay – God knows this is strange enough as it is. Instead, I just slide my hand into his boxers - probably the least hazardous contact I can make under the circumstances.

He returns the favor.

His hand is warm, but luckily not as warm as you might expect.

It's just a steady motion, but everything else is anything _but_ steady - I can feel sweat building and it doesn't take long before thoughts begin getting misplaced - I'm not even sure which of them belong to _me_, it's all starting to mesh - choppy, senseless words -

_Explode _

I freeze.

"Why- are you stopping?" he asks, managing to cram an impressive amount of annoyance into a mostly breathless sentence.

"Did you think _explode_?"

"What?"

"It's just…" I shake my head, "just a really bad metaphor."

_God Parkman what are you **talking** about just **shut up** and - _

"_Okay_, never mind."

I work on getting some rhythm back, but a nagging concern keeps surfacing.

Maybe doing, well – _this_ - with a guy who can go nuclear isn't such a smart idea.

Idea. Smart. What am I _doing_?

"Uh, Ted-"

A lump is forming down my throat - there's a faint glow and an amber tint in his eyes -

Oh God.

Oh _God._

"Ted!"

"_What?_"

I just… _look_.

"Oh." He cools down in an instant, looking vaguely embarrassed. "Sorry."

I take a few _very_ deep breaths, desperately hoping that the tight feeling in my chest isn't an indicator for an upcoming heart attack.

"…Okay."

"Won't happen again," he assures.

"Good. That's… good." I go for a grin, but end up with a nervous chuckle, "Bit of a mood killer."

"I _said _I was sorry," he mutters, avoiding meeting my gaze.

_I **need** this, Parkman. _

The thought goes straight into my gut - there's something desperate, vulnerable about it, and – do_ I_ need it? I have Janice, and this is _wrong_ - but right now it's not nearly as wrong as it should be, and _he_ doesn't have anybody, not anymore.

And we're friends. Sort of.

Okay, I guess I can take the risk. Not like there's an insurance policy on world saving, either.

After a brief but meaningful prayer to the god of radioactivity, I get back into it – Ted makes a sound, like a half-hearted, choked growl.

It speeds up, and the, uh - _feeling _builds until it's –

All thoughts are wiped out, and then there's just shallow panting.

I lie on top of him, catching my breath.

"Parkman," he gives a stifled grunt with a hint of a whine, "Parkman, you're heavy."

Nice. Tact and exploding men don't get along, obviously.

I get off of him, barely managing not to slide off the mattress in the process.

"You can call me Matt, you know."

"Um," he gives me a look. "No, I think-" the corner of his mouth tugs upwards, looking distinctly uncomfortable there - this is about as close to a smile as he gets, really, "I think Parkman is okay."

I release a trapped breath. "Whatever."

I lie still for a few minutes, attempting to avoid anything that could lead to a normal thought process. Or questions.

Or worse - _answers_.

Still, we should probably talk this over. Clear things out.

"Look, it doesn't mean anything, it's just-" Just _what_? "I mean, we're both under a lot of stress and, well, there's Bennet, and that can't be good for our mental health, so," I notice a lack of reaction on his end, "Ted?"

Great.

_He_ snores.

* * *

Early is an understatement. 

Most things concerning Bennet are.

At least the spots coloring my vision and the general fuzziness of a world just after sunrise serves the not-thinking-about-it objective.

We settle in a small diner across the street. It's empty, since nobody _sane_ is awake in these hours.

"How was your night?" Bennet inquires, impeccably, irritatingly polite.

So suddenly he's a master of small talk. There's definitely something suspicious about that.

Not that Ted staring resolutely into his menu – about as subtle as a five-year-old bent on hiding a batch of stolen candy – is helping matters.

"It was, uh," I look for a normal, neutral, unsuspicious word, "fine. How was yours?"

"Uneventful."

What's that supposed to mean?

I could check… but his head is absolutely the _last_ place I wanna be right now.

I don't have to look into his mind to see it. The son of a bitch_ knows_.

Not only that, but…

"You _planned_ it that way, didn't you?"

Ted looks up from the menu, eyebrow quirked.

Bennet just tilts his head sideways inquisitively. "Planned what?"

"The rooms–" the points start to connect. I lean towards him, "There were more than just two vacancies, weren't there?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

It sounds like a shameless lie, but then again, he wouldn't be able to sound _innocent_ if he had a shiny halo super -glued to his head, or if he tagged along with Barney- …now there's a disturbing image.

I lean back in my chair.

"Nothing. Forget it."

I guess I'm just being paranoid. Not that it's the worst thing to be around this guy.

_To each his own, Parkman. _

I shut my eyes, bring a hand to my forehead . This – oh, this is just _terrific_.

"Need an aspirin?" Bennet asks helpfully. "I bought some earlier. Thought it might come in handy," he makes a calculated pause, "with the telepathy."

Then he gives that _smile_. I bet he got beaten up a lot in school for that smile. God, I _hope_ he did.

"Yeah, it _might_."

So, that's where things stand. There are plenty of questions, moot points, ambiguities, but one thing I'm _sure_ about.

If the explosion, Bennet's plan, or just a plain old heart attack don't do me in…

The headaches definitely will.


End file.
